


Taxi

by scooterpiety



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Taxis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scooterpiety/pseuds/scooterpiety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bull, a budding musician, is a cab driver in the bustling metropolis of Kirkwall and has just picked up his last fare of the evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of an ongoing AU series. This is my first post ever. :)

    It was raining hard in Kirkwall, as it had for the past two days and the street lights reflected in the wet pavement gave the city an otherworldly glow.  The Iron Bull maneuvered his cab through the streets looking for any late night fares flagging him down.  He preferred the night shift this time of year.  He didn't sleep well when in the rainy months, the damp made old pains flare up. The streets at this time were mostly deserted, so his drive was pretty smooth. At least when he was driving he had to keep his mind focused on the task of driving, which kept him from thinking about the pain in his joints.  He took it all in stride, though, and used this time to concentrate on his *actual* work.  Rain beat a steady staccato rhythm on his roof, the windshield wipers kept time, and that's when the lyrics came.

    "Her heart was cold as ice….something something something…..paradise?" Bull groaned and shook his head at the cheesiness of that line.

    Bull was an aspiring musician and songwriter.  When he wasn't driving a cab, he was plying his trade in the open mic nights and bars in Lowtown.  Bartenders and bookers alike were always skeptical when they saw the one eyed, horned giant come before them, but in the end they were always impressed.  Even missing fingers, Bull's guitar playing could rival any professional and his voice, all growly as he spoke, became a baritone rich as fine chocolate.  He's played the best and worst Kirkwall had to offer and had always come out on top, but he was troubled.

    He'd booked a gig with his backup band, The Chargers, at The Hanged Man where the clientele was always a melting pot.  One of the only places in Kirkwall, besides the jail, where Hightown and Lowtown residents rubbed elbows regularly.  The renowned author Varric Tethras frequented the tavern, and was rumored to be a silent partner in it.  A word or a nod from Varric could jump start any entertainer's career and now he and his boys had a gig there.  Now he was stressing about the set.  The old standards like The Rain in Rivain and There Goes The Gallows worked well for Lowtown dives, but they needed some new material.  

    "Rainin' hard in Hightown.  Need one more fare to make my night…" he crooned, then shook his head.  "Wait, is that the title of his book?  Shit.  Start over."

    He nearly missed the wave.  A figure holding onto an umbrella for dear life under a street lamp was flagging him down.  Bull pulled over and the fare scrambled into the back.  Bull started the meter and pulled away from the curb.

    "Where you headed?"  He asked looking into the rearview mirror to get a look at what had just crawled into his cab.  For a moment there was no response, just an annoyed grunt as the passenger wrestled with the umbrella which was stuck and dripping all over the upholstery.  

    "Number 12 Amell Way, Hightown.  Kaffas!  This umbrella is obviously defective." The man said just as Bull was about to ask again.  

    A Vint. Been a while since he had one as a passenger. In Bull's experience, Vints tip better when they're complimented. So, it was going to be one of those nights.  At least this one smelled better than his last fare. Things were looking up.

   Bull kept his eye on the road and let his other senses take in the scene.  The training he received in another life had never gone away.  At times he was thankful for it, when it alerted him to danger, but he’d gladly give it away if it meant getting rid of the painful memories it came with.  He let out a little grunt and centered his mind the way he had learned to when the past was threatening to well up.  He was no longer in Seheron.  He was no longer of The Qun.  He was now The Iron Bull, musician and the best cab driver Kirkwall had ever seen.

    He inhaled softly and got a whiff of the fine whiskey he'd been enjoying (Warden's Stamina, if he was any judge), jasmine flower and cinnamon.  Spices and a faint floral scent were popular with the Tevinter elite, but it was far subtler than the array of "high endurance", violent sounding deodorants popular in the Free Marches.  This guy was obviously a man of means and good taste who was used to the finer things, but wasn't above "slumming".  Bull quickly assembled some topics for conversation, based on his quick assessment, would help ensure a hearty tip.  

    "So…how was the date?" Bull said unabashedly.  The small cluck he heard from the backseat meant he was right.

    "What makes you think I was on a date?  I could have been spending a perfectly lovely evening getting quietly drunk." The man shot back, somewhere between amused and surprised.  

    Bull shrugged, one elbow casually leaning on the partition between the backseat and the front.  "You could have, but that cologne?  That's for special occasions, special people."  That earned him a scoff from the, as yet, invisible passenger.  The cab was dark, and Bull was trying to piece together what he looked like in the glimpses he got when a streetlamp illuminated his features.  So far his scant glances has taken in a black trenchcoat, perfectly styled hair, and the glint of gold jewelry.  The man was leaning back which kept his face in the shadows.  Bull had a feeling he was as pretty as he smelled and sounded.  

    "Well spotted, I guess.  Sadly, the bastard stood me up.  He had the decency to text me though.  Seems he couldn't be seen with a "vint" in these troubled times.  I've half a mind to set his Jaguar on fire." The stranger drawled and Bull could hear the smirk in words.  It reminded Bull of someone he once knew.  Someone he called "vint" in the best possible terms (at first).  

"For now," he huffed as both of his thumbs were quickly texting the bastard in question, "I'm content with calling him every name in the book."

    "Asshole.  He deserves more than petty arson for standing up a pretty thing like you.  Maybe a fish in the radiator.  Ruins the upholstery and makes even the finest leather smell like rotten crotch." Bull went stock-still as he heard the sputtering, high pitched laugh from behind him.  He had heard it many times, mostly in the dark or in dimly lit dive bars.  

    The cab came to a stop at a well lit intersection on the border of Hightown.  Bull, both hands gripping the steering wheel now, glanced up into the rearview mirror.  His heart raced and palms itched.  When the Vint looked up from his texting tirade, he nearly dropped his phone.  He checked the panel that had a copy of the driver's license to be sure.  Bull nodded softly and smiled at him through the mirror.

    "How are you, Dorian?" Bull said, more excited than he'd have liked to sound.

    Dorian’s face was as guileless as a kitten’s.  Bull was sure he would become flushed and quiet but then, unexpectedly, he smiled brightly.  That same smile from years ago.

    "How are you, Bull?  Through the too many miles and the too few smiles, it's good to see you." He crowed, moving closer to the partition.  Bull felt something pop in his chest.  What a night...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see a glimpse into their first meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of an AU with the working title The Kirkwall Chronicles, that I'm working in with a friend.

5 Years Ago….

    A workingman's bar in Lowtown on a Friday night.  The air was filled with smoke and the stench of stale beer.  It was muggy with the mingled body heat of faceless patrons all milling about, trying desperately to not look at one another.    Behind a sturdy wall of finely gauged chicken wire was a raised section of wooden floor which served as a stage.  

Oghren's Alehouse always had live entertainment on Friday nights, usually consisting of some poor drunken sod wailing out a tune about as articulate as an immolated cat.  The regulars never paid much attention to whoever was playing, since Friday was also "two for one shot night".  A young , nervous looking man wearing a baggy flannel shirt and jeans sat on one of the rickety stools behind the microphone.  Everyone's back was to the stage when the mic went live.  There was a low grumble as the singer cleared his throat, then every man in the bar turned as one to the stage, as the biggest qunari they had ever seen began to strum an acoustic guitar.

    "Good evening, ladies and gentleman.  I'm The Iron Bull, this is Krem,  and this is a little song I wrote called 'Amaranthine Eyes'."

    Bull sang his ballad, deep and solid, and as the final note was struck, a curious thing happened.  A rousing, uproarious round of applause broke out through the entire bar.  Men who has spent their day smelting iron in the foundry or working on the docks nearly had tears in their eyes.  Those, too far gone on beer and rye, banged their mugs on tables and yelled for another song.  Bull turned to Krem and smiled a cocky grin, then launched into a jauntier tune about bedding Antivans. In the back of the bar, in a dark corner, a finely dressed young man sat with his chin in hand and watched the singer with a Cheshire grin.   

    By the end of their set, Bull and Krem had 11 free drink vouchers between them and at least one offer of marriage from an old dwarf lady.  The two singers clinked mugs in a toast to their first successful gig in Kirkwall.  

    "Told you we'd do well, Krème Puff.  Gotta have more faith." Bull drawled, taking a long pull from his mug.  Krem rolled his eyes at the latest nickname and decided, in retaliation, not to tell Bull about the beer foam mustache clinging to the qunari's stubble.

    "That's what you said last time, Chief, then we barely made it out with our lives." Krem craned his neck as a busty serving girl walked by.  She had been circling them like a shark, making eyes at him and Krem was ready to pounce.  Bull laughed and lightly kicked Krem under the table.

    "Relax, Krem.  We did great tonight, and the next time will be better.  For now, let's celebrate.  How's that old Vint saying go?  'We came, we saw, we drank everything'?" Bull beamed, beer warming his belly and money in his pocket.  The only way this could get any better would be if some pretty young thing dropped into his lap.  The Universe at large seemed to hear Bull.  A bronzed, young man that had been watching Bull closely all night poked his head from around a booth and smiled at the qunari.  

    Krem let out a long-suffering sigh and was about to reply, when he realized Bull's eye had fixed on someone behind him.  Krem turned and caught the glint of gold in the dim light.  There was a man walking up to them from one of the dimly lit booths in the corner.  Some spoiled rich guy who needed a hefty boot to the balls, Krem thought.

    "To my knowledge," the man, a Vint upon closer inspection, said with a smile "That's not an actual Tevinter proverb, no matter how appropriate it would be for us.  It would be Venimus , vidimus , omnia bibimus, by the way. " 

    Krem turned to Bull with his best "look at this asshole" face, hoping he would agree, but Bull was smiling earnestly at the guy.  He groaned and looked around for that waitress.  This was going to be a long night and he needed more beer to face it.

    "Dorian Pavus, associate professor at the Kirkwall Circle and music lover.  How do you do?"  He held his hand out in greeting, with a small, proud grin.  He chuckled softly as Bull's own giant hand enveloped his.  It was warmer and softer then he imagined it would be.  He wondered what other soft places he would find tonight.

 

Present Day….

 

    "You still up at the Circle?" Bull asked, shaking the cobwebs from his mind. 

    "Yes.  Still there, trying to potty train the freshman and rein in the upperclassmen.  Maker, I swear…" he trailed off, fumbling over his words.  He was used to be poised and perfect, always three moves ahead of the conversation.  The Bull was the only man who was able to bring his defenses down.  Even now, after not seeing him in five years, Dorian felt all his perfectly rehearsed lines melt away.  His mind groped for something to say, anything, to break the tension.  

    Bull caught the fumbling and part of him was proud.  After all this time, Dorian was still flustered by him.  He grinned as they drove up the hill towards Hightown.  In small, dark places inside his mind, Bull had been waiting for this moment.  He had played it over and over in his mind, just how it would go.  Dorian would get in the cab, all coiffed and perfect, wearing that other man's ring and shining like the sun.  Bull would smile and be as polite as ever, then, without fail, Dorian would mouth off like the spoiled brat he was.  He'd let Dorian have his words, and then Bull would become the uncultured brute Dorian had always expected.  He'd curse, rave, rant and let out the years of bile in one, glorious tirade.  Closure at last, or something close to it.

    Dorian's mouth was dry.  His shoulders slumped and he looked down at his hands.  He let go of any pretense.  This was Bull, the only man who cared enough to look past his bluster and actually see the real Dorian.  Dorian shook his head when he thought back to how he had repaid all Bull's kindness and affection.  There was nothing left to say, except….

    Bull cleared his throat pointedly.  He wanted Dorian to go on, he wanted to get his cue so he could launch into his fit.  He was left wanting, teetering on the edge when he heard the words he both dreaded and longed to hear.

    "Bull…I'm sorry.  For everything." Dorian said from the darkness of the back seat.  Bull kept his gaze straight ahead and, as the taxi crested the hill into Hightown, the rain stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it. Please leave me any comments or questions you have. Kudos are nice too. :)


	3. Chapter 3

The taxi was filled with a tense silence , punctuated now only by the hitched breathing and small sniffles from the backseat, as they drove through the sleeping streets of Hightown. Bull's military mind was regrouping from the shock of what he had just heard. All this time, he was sure that Dorian was remorseless and their time together was just a spoiled Vint scratching an itch. He thought that any response he would get would be smarmy and peppered with sarcasm, but an apology? He was not prepared for that. With that same sickening determination that had raised him through the ranks of the Ben Hassrath, Bull pressed on for the explanation he was due. "Why did you leave?" he rasped, tongue dry and lips taut. 

In the brighter light of the Hightown streetlights he could see Dorian better. He was looking at Bull in the rearview mirror just as Bull was watching him. His face was just as pretty as it had been, mustache still groomed within an inch of its life too, but there was something else. He couldn't place what was different, but he did see that the mage's mind was churning, straining to put come up with the right words to answer. 

Dorian was terrified he'd let his usual glib snark slip out, but what could he say? How could he convey the abject terror her felt as the old pressures welled up around him? How could he make someone else understand when he couldn't fully grasp it himself? He'd run through the reasons hundreds of times in his own mind, sometimes just so he could get to sleep at night. In the end, the answer was always the same.

 

2 Years Ago…

 

He couldn't look Bull in the eyes that night. Dorian had been distant all day, even in class, and now as Bull and his quickly growing band sang at the Knights of Shartan meeting hall, Dorian stayed backstage in the dressing room. He turned a small envelope in his hand, worrying the edges and fighting with himself until he was a flushed, sweating mess. He sat at the vanity and stared at himself, trying to calm his nerves.

He and Bull had been whatever this was for just over a year now. Before that, Dorian could have been called, begrudgingly, a groupie. He'd track their Kirkwall shows on their Facebook page and "just happen" to be in the crowd that night. It was all terribly nauseating to outsiders, but it warmed the secret romantic inside of Dorian and amused the barely concealed showman in Bull. It wasn't long before Dorian was part of the gig, sort of a hype man in the crowds. If a song called for the bar to clap along or sing out at the chorus, he'd be the one to lead the crowd.

Then, one night after a particularly heavy session of lovemaking, as Dorian lay dozing in Bull's arms, it hit him. He was in a relationship with a man. No, not just a man. Dorian was in a relationship with a man who cared enough about him to put Dorian's pleasure above his own. A man who genuinely cared what Dorian had to say, even if he teased and groused about it. A man who could see when Dorian was hurting and gently coax the truth out of him. It hit him all at once, how vulnerable and open this made him, and that chilled him to his very core. It was only a matter of time before Bull saw the true ugliness that Dorian believed lay inside. He couldn't let that happen, not to Bull. He had to be cruel to be kind.

He'd lived with that realization for a few weeks now and so he'd pulled back from Bull, saying he needed space. It started slow with Dorian making excuses to leave right after making love or avoiding deep conversation. Most devastating to Bull, though, was when Dorian's rapier wit, which the mage used as a defense against outsiders, had been used on him. When he asked what was wrong ,or how he could help, Bull couldn't get a straight answer out of him. It was infuriating, and Bull wanted to lash out, but he wouldn't risk an outburst. He couldn't lose himself to his anger again. He would always rein back his temper, but none of this answered any of his questions, so things just got more tense. Bull did confront him once. He asked Dorian, straight out, if he was seeing someone else. Dorian had scoffed and refused to answer. Bull's response, though, sent a chill through Dorian's body.

"I should have known," Bull said, his voice calm and steeled "All you Vints are the same."

It'd taken Dorian the better part of a day to recover from that remark. When he did, he knew this had to end.

Dorian dabbed at his eyes with a tissue from the make-up mirror. He could hear Bull's number coming to a close outside. He nodded to his reflection and stuck it in the mirror frame. The "Dear John" letter inside had taken him two bottles of wine to write, but he hoped it would be enough for Bull. The crowd was applauding now. Dorian grabbed his jacket and left the hall. 

 

Present Day….

 

"I was a coward. I let my old fears and stubborn pride get in the way. I threw away something beautiful for something imaginary." His voice was barely a meek utterance and hardly the whole story, but it was the truth and Bull knew it. Dorian let it hang in the air a while as they turned onto the long stretch of Amell Way. He wasn't sure Bull had heard him, and was about to say something else, until he nodded solemnly and grunted affirmatively from deep within his chest.

And there it was, finally. After two years, Bull had finally gotten his explanation, and it was just as he had thought. He'd worked hard in therapy these past years to learn to let go of old hurts. Dr. Lavellan, his therapist, had spent session after session walking him through intense meditations on how to accept the truth and move forward without his mental pain. For all his progress, this wound never healed. Perhaps now it could. 

Bull pulled alongside a stately row style estate with the usual gleaming, white brick face. The polished brass address plate read "#12 Amell Way. Dorian Pavus, N.E.C". Swanky, Bull thought, but expected nothing less. Dorian always had good taste, but the Dorian he knew never wanted this sort of life. Rather, the Dorian he thought he knew never wanted this life.

"That'll be $17.50." Bull stuck his huge, gray hand out to Dorian, who quickly gathered his things and deposited a $20 note into the qunari's palm.

"Keep the change, Bull." he looked into the rearview mirror and into Bull's eye as he said this. Dorian was surprised that Bull's eyes were red rimmed with tears. As Bull slipped the bill into his shirt, Dorian slipped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk, waiting. Would Bull say something more? If he asked to come in, Dorian would roll out the red carpet. Instead, he stood there, watching as the taillights of the taxi disappeared into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krem visits Bull the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the mighty fall. Luckily they have friends. As always, comments and kudos are appreciated, :)

 The constant buzzing was now unavoidable.  An arm emerged from the ragged heap of blankets and reached for the cellphone's usual place on the nightstand, but instead Bull pulled back an empty bottle of cheap maraas-lok.  That explained the headache.  The buzzing stopped and Bull groaned, emerging from his blanket cocoon, like some big, naked, hungover moth, he began searching for his missing phone.

 

 "The fuck!" he exclaimed gazing about the room.

 

 His room, usually in a state of lived-in tidiness was now in shambles.  His pants from the night before were strewn over his television, the far wall of his room had a deep indent in the plaster as if something heavy had been lobbed at it, and oddest of all, his leg brace and eye patch were hanging from the light fixture above his bed.  He finally found the cellphone under the bed, in a take out container of half eaten Tevinter curry.  Licking away the excess sauce he saw he had 17 missed calls, no doubt all from the same number.  The phone began to buzz again and, of course, it was Krem.

 

 "Hello?" he grumbled, voice rough with sleep. He sat heavily on the floor.  His head was beginning to throb and he was hoping to avoid the impending lecture.

 

 "Just waking up, sleeping beauty?" Krem joked.  Bull growled, warning of an ass beating, as soon as the world stopped spinning.

 

 "Yeah.  What time is it?"

 

 "4:30.  Went ahead and canceled practice, but now you owe Rocky and Dalish lunch.  Rough night, chief?" he asked steadily, knowing full well the answer.

 

 Bull thought about last night but all he could recall were shades and snippets, not the full picture.  He felt like he owed several people an apology and possibly a new carpet.  "Dunno.  Can't really remember last night," he removed a ladies stocking from the tip of his horn, "Must have been fun though."

 

 Krem hummed on the other end, clearly not convinced.

 

 "Hey, c'mon, it's not like that.  I'm fine, Krem.  Honest."

 

 "Oh yeah.  Sure Chief," Krem mocked, raising his voice "That why you felt the need to call me at 5 this morning and start yelling at my about how shitty Vints are?"

 

 Bull sat bolt upright, pieces of last night's puzzle falling into place.  The late night fare, Dorian, and that sucking, empty feeling in his chest at the end.  A frigid sensation gripped his heart as he suddenly understood the warzone like state of his bedroom.  "I didn't.  Did I?"

 

 "Yeah, you did.  You're just lucky I had today off or I'd be really pissed at you, nug humper."

 

 "Oh…fuck.  Krem, I don't know what to say." the normally boisterous baritone of his voice was replaced with a graveled contrition.  The Iron Bull didn't pull off "meek" very well.

 

 Krem sighed.  "I'm downstairs with some of that overly sweet coffee you like and a box of donuts.  Buzz me in and then put some fucking pants on."

 

 "Yeah.  Yeah, alright, see you in a minute.  Wait…how'd you know I was naked?" Bull asked, getting to his feet and walking to the door console.

 

 "Chief, when aren't you naked?"  

 

 After a hot shower, seven donuts, and draining his trenta triple shot mocha monstrosity, Bull was feeling more like his usual self.  When he called Krem and asshole for not using a coaster, Krem knew he was ready to talk things out.

 

 "So are we just going to pretend last night didn't happen or are we going to talk about it like civilized adults?" Krem asked, sinking back into the Qunari sized overstuffed, lavender armchair.  The seriousness of his tone was somewhat ruined as he had to sit at the edge of the cushion just for his feet to reach the floor.  Bull chuckled and shook his head.  Krem had been the first friend The Iron Bull had made and sometimes he wondered where he'd be without him.  

 

 Years ago, when his life began, the newly christened Iron Bull made his way through Antiva.  Tal-Vashoth, and not knowing what to do in this new world, he drifted, taking whatever work he could find along the way.  He took mostly odd jobs and manual day labor, the monotony of which Bull appreciated.  The managers were always keen to hire cheap, refugee muscle and the simple work allowed him to let his mind go blank as his body took over the task. One afternoon, in a small town near the border,  Bull had stopped into a tavern to inquire about a job and had unknowingly walked into a barroom brawl.  

 

 The melee had been going on for some time, by the looks of things.  Shattered glass and pieces of broken furniture littered the ground.  The oppressive scent of stale body odor mixed with blood, and that spiced beer Antivans love so much, assaulted Bull's senses.  He began to sweat, his breath became shallow, and he was both freezing and roasting at the same time.  He was about to leave when he heard a scream somewhere in the back.  The screaming of that man, of Krem, coupled with the scents pulled him back into his old life.

 

 By the end of that night, Bull had lost an eye but gained the truest friend anyone could hope for.  Small price to pay, Bull thought.    

 

 "I saw Dorian last night." said Bull, after a few false starts, then finally making eye contact with Krem.  

 

 "Ah," Krem nodded and sipped his coffee, "Was he alone?"

 

 "Yeah.  Looked good too.  Was out on a date and someone stood him up."

 

 "Serves him right," Krem said, allowing himself some bitterness, "After what he did, he needs a taste of it."

 

 "Yeah, I guess," Bull nodded, shoulders slumping, "He was alone.  I was all set to lay into him, you know?  Like how we always talked about?  But it didn't go as planned."

 

 Krem gave a noncommittal hum for him to elaborate, but inside he was on fire.  When the chief fell, he fell hard.

 

   It was easy to mistake Iron Bull for some kind of brute with very little depth, in fact Bull had often said he cultivated that persona so he didn't have to deal with shallow people.  The weeks following the break up, and the Bull's self sabotage, were etched deep into Krem's memory; Bull falling into bed with any pretty thing that crossed his path, drinking so much that it took three of them to peel him up off the floor in the morning. He was becoming the lout that others thought him to be.  One night, after he'd polished off half a keg by himself, Bull admitted to Krem that he was considering turning himself in to the Qunari reeducators.  Krem, understandably upset by the idea, asked him about it.  He came clean on just how much pain he was in, something about the feeling that his heart was missing.  Knowing exactly what had provoked this torrent of emotional pain brought with it a new level of panic.  

 

 Love, jealousy, and exclusivity were unheard of in Qunari society.  So, as he had felt all of these, Bull feared this is was the first stage of the madness that Qunari are taught Tal-Vashoth experience after leaving the Qun.  He was intimately aware o the techniques the reeducators employed, knew many of the subtle tricks of the trade they would most likely use to  "cure" him.  Even if they used the potent, mind obliterating, drug qamek, Bull welcomed the thought as a comfort.  

 

 Krem laid into him, explaining just how good a person he was, how strong he was, and how the world needed more people just like him.  Silently, Bull slipped onto his knees and bowed his head as the long, silent sobs caused his muscled body to shake and lurch.  They were the first tears he had cried as a free man, and as Krem realized this, he slipped his ars around his best friend's neck and, careful of the horns, let the bigger man sob on his shoulder.  Damn that altus.

 

 Now, after years of Bull working on himself in therapy, with the occasional cathartic revenge fantasy thrown in for good measure, he'd be damned if he'd see all Bull had worked for go down the tubes.

 

 "Seeing him just brought everything back to the surface, you know?  I just didn't know what to do.  I still don't know what I did last night, but I'm sore and my room's a mess.  Fuck, Krem." Bull rubbed his temples with both hands.

 

 "You can't go back to your old way of dealing with things, that's for damn sure.  You got so much more now to lose.  You've got all this.  Not to mention the band." said Krem but he felt a twinge of guilt .  They had the biggest audition of their careers in two weeks and they all needed to be at the top of their game.  The well being of his friends came first, of course, but he secretly prayed that this was all just a passing thing.

 

 Bull grunted in agreement.  His eye was unfocused, starting a thousand miles away while looking down at his bare feet.  With an exaggerated inhale, he began a series of cadenced breaths.  Anyone close to Bull know these well, they were the breathing exercises Bull did when he was trying to pull himself away from a painful memory or flashback.  They had the nickname "mental Lamaze".    

 

 "Hey chief, " Krem kept his voice even and calming, "When's the last time you talked to 'doc elfy'?"

 

 Bull continued a few more breaths before looking up at Krem with something more alive behind his gray eye.  "Good idea, Krem.  'Bout time you fucking had one." he joked, producing his cellphone, which still smelled of faintly curry.  Krem flipped him off, chugging the remainder of his coffee as Bull dialed.

 

 "Hey Ellana," Bull said holding the phone up to one pointed ear, "It's Iron Bull.  Listen..I had sort of a rough night and was wondering if you had any openings today?  I know it's late, I just really need to…you will?  Oh that's great.  See you at 7.  Thanks, doc."

 

 "Go put on a shirt and some shoes." Krem said with an authoritative point toward his bedroom.  

 

 "Smug little asshole." Bull grumbled at him, but ultimately rose and shuffled off.

 

 He's going to be okay, Krem thought as he sat alone in the cozy living room.  A side effect, or perhaps a survival trait, of living in the Tevinter Imperium was always hedge your bets.  Now, as Bull got ready to see Dr. Lavellan, he produced his cellphone and sent a text to Dalish, the Chargers electric violin player:

 

 

 Need your help tomorrow.  Bring yer "bow". 


End file.
